The Cuckoo Child (42 page)
Dot cleared her throat and her aunt, who was noisily sipping her tea, raised her eyebrows. ‘Wharrisit, queen? I dare say they’ve ate up all the food and took all me housekeepin’ money, but if you nip out to one or two o’ the shops on Heyworth Street and explain that I’m just out o’ hospital, they’ll give you tick till the end of the week.’
Dot pulled a face. ‘What do you want me to buy then, Aunt?’ she asked, rather suspiciously. ‘I s’pose it’ll be blind scouse, so that’s a visit to the greengrocer, and then you’ll want a screw o’ tea and the same with sugar . . . that’s the corner shop.’
Her aunt stared at her incredulously. ‘Blind scouse on me first night home? And you’ve not mentioned the pudding; Rupert do love a nice treacle puddin’ an’ so do me sons.’ She began to tick items off on her fingers. ‘You’ll need flour, lard, some dripping when you go to the butcher’s for the meat and some suet an’ all. If you go to Mr Rathbone . . . oh, no, it’ll have to be Henry Morgan, further up the street, but I’m sure he’ll let you have lard, suet and scrag end . . . if you explain, that is. Then we’ll want carrots, turnips and onions, an’ half a stone o’ spuds o’ course, as well as a tin o’ treacle for the puddin’ and some Bird’s custard powder. Oh, and you’d best nip into the dairy for a quart of milk.’ She pulled a dissatisfied face. ‘Your uncle will expect a jug o’ porter on me first night back but I can’t see the old feller at the Elephant giving tick to anyone.’
Dot stared at her aunt in disbelief. The older woman’s reputation as a good payer was non-existent. She always sent Dot out to get messages with insufficient money and Dot had to plead and bargain and accept the cheapest of goods in order to fill her basket. As for providing her uncle and cousins with such a wonderful meal to celebrate their mother’s return from hospital, Dot thought it was downright ridiculous. They could buy fish and chips again, or go hungry for all she cared. She was tempted to say this to Aunt Myrtle, then decided not to bother. Instead, she left the house without another word – and without her aunt’s big marketing basket either – returning after ten minutes or so with a screw of tea and one of sugar, and a small loaf which the nearby baker had given her for nothing since he said it was already going stale.
By the time she got back, her aunt was asleep and snoring gently, but she awoke when Dot closed the pantry door and rubbed her eyes, saying thickly: ‘You were quick, chuck. Now if you’ll just nip upstairs and do my room – an’ the boys’ room, o’ course – you can start gettin’ the meal ready when you come down. I dare say all the sheets will need washing, but you can leave the laundry till tomorrow, bein’ as how it’ll take you a while to prepare the food and a scouse is all the better for long, slow cookin’.’
Dot opened her mouth, then closed it again. She went upstairs and stripped the sheets, which were indeed dirty, from her aunt’s bed, replacing them with the only other pair her aunt possessed. Then she took the chamber pot, which was full to the brim, and emptied it into the slop bucket under the washstand, clapping the lid on as quickly as she could to muffle the noxious smell. She hoped that, because the slop bucket was empty, it meant that Uncle Rupert had washed downstairs in the kitchen, but she thought it likelier that he had not washed at all. Without Aunt Myrtle chivvying him to do so, he had probably simply dressed and gone off to work each day, regardless of the state he was in. Dot put the slop bucket down on the landing and opened the door of the boys’ room. The curtains were still drawn across the window and the stench of sweat, dirty clothing and bedding, and rancid hair oil, nearly knocked her backwards. She saw that both chamber pots were full – one had actually brimmed over on to the floorboards – and backed out hastily, closing the door firmly behind her. The boys’ beds did not boast sheets but only blankets, and she guessed that the blankets would be riddled with bed bugs and fleas. All the housewives of the court waged a constant battle against such pests, and it was clear no battle had been waged in the boys’ room since their mother had left.
Downstairs once more, she carried the slop bucket into the court, emptied it down the drain, rinsed it under the tap and went back indoors. She entered the kitchen, tight-lipped. ‘I’ve done your room, Aunt Myrtle,’ she said evenly. ‘Uncle Rupert hadn’t emptied his chamber pot for at least a week, so I’ve opened the window to get rid of the smell, but I won’t go into the boys’ room, norrif you paid me a hundred pounds. They can do it themselves; they’re strong and healthy, and you know you said you were goin’ to make ’em do more.’
‘No point in bein’ nasty, Dot, just because you’re annoyed with the way your cousins left their room. Men aren’t no good at housework; nor’s boys, for that matter. So just you nip up an’ clean the room for ’em, there’s a good girl. I does it as a rule but I just ain’t up to it, not yet.’ She chuckled, giving Dot a sly glance under half-closed lids. ‘I dare say all the bedding’ll need a good wash ’cos the bed bugs won’t have been treated to no Keating’s Powder, nor disinfectant, while I’ve been away, but I’ll let you off that for today; you can do the laundry tomorrer.’
Dot took a deep, steadying breath. It was the chuckle and the sly glance which had finally made up her mind for her. She knew her aunt had taken it for granted that she would traipse up and down Heyworth Street, getting shopkeepers to give her food for which she could not immediately pay, but she also expected her to enter the filthy, stinking pit which was the boys’ room and could actually find the thought of Dot’s tackling such a task amusing.
‘No, Aunt Myrtle, I don’t mean to do the boys’ room and neither am I going to cook them a meal,’ she said firmly. ‘I did manage to get tea, sugar and a loaf of bread on tick, but I didn’t try to get anything else. If you don’t have any money, then you’d best make Sammy, or Uncle Rupert, go out and get fish and chips. After all, judging by the pong and the greasy newspapers under the sink, they’ve been pretty well living on the stuff since you and meself moved out.’
Her aunt bristled, the colour in her cheeks deepening to an angry red. ‘Less o’ that, young lady,’ she said sharply. ‘Don’t you dare defy me, and after all I’ve done for you, too. Why, your mam simply dumped you on me when you were no more’n five, but did I complain? Did I try to put you in an orphanage? No, ’cos I knew my duty: I fed you, clothed you . . .’
‘You clothed me in what were little better than rags an’ fed me the leavings from me cousins’ meals,’ Dot reminded her. ‘You made me run your messages and do the housework even when it meant I gorrin trouble for saggin’ off school. I had to buy me own second-hand plimsolls and then hide them away so’s you wouldn’t take them for Dick or Alan, an’ though you wouldn’t let me uncle send me to the orphanage, that wasn’t because you loved me, or wanted the best for me, it was because I was too bleedin’ useful.’
Her aunt stared at her, eyes fairly starting from her head, and Dot realised she had never expected the worm that was her niece to turn so decisively. She said feebly: ‘It were only fair that you should help out now an’ then. You’re the only girl, and not my own get, at that. Why, when your uncle would ha’ sent you away, I stood up agin ’im, which ain’t easy.’ Her voice changed to a wheedle. ‘Now come along, Dotty, be a good girl an’ get the boys’ room redded up, then I’ll see if I can find some money so’s you can do the messages wi’out having to ask for tick. You an’ me mustn’t fall out; I were that fond o’ your mam . . .’
‘I’m not cleaning the boys’ room and you can use the marketing money to buy the fish and chips,’ Dot said firmly. She was extremely cross with her aunt for deceiving her and pretending there was no money in the house, for now she saw the older woman fumble in the kitchen dresser and produce from its dusty depths an old brown purse. When she opened it, Dot could see that it contained a great deal of cash.
‘Me savings; even Rupert don’t know about them,’ her aunt said proudly. She fished around in the purse, producing two florins which she held out to Dot. ‘Here you are, queen, get me messages and you can leave the boys’ room till the veggies is cooking.’ Then, when Dot made no move to take the money, she added sharply: ‘Gerra move on, Dot, otherwise you really will find yourself knockin’ at the door of the nearest orphanage.’
It was too much. If her aunt had made some attempt to show real affection for her niece, Dot might have remained for at least a couple of days. As it was, she shook her head sadly and turned towards the kitchen door. ‘Goodbye, Aunt Myrtle,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll pop in from time to time to see how you’re getting on but I don’t mean to live in this house ever again.’
‘Dot McCann, just you come back here,’ her aunt shrieked. ‘I’m a sick woman. They said at the hospital I weren’t to exert meself. It’s your duty to look after me until I’m well.’
Dot popped her head back round the door. ‘No it ain’t, it’s the duty of your husband and your sons,’ she said bluntly. ‘If they can’t manage, then there’s plenty o’ girls what’ll give a hand if they’s paid to do so, but I’m not one o’ them. See you sometime, Aunt Myrtle.’
She closed the door gently behind her and, with her aunt’s wails echoing in her ears, made her way out of the house, across the court and into Heyworth Street. She felt wonderfully light, light as air, and though she kept telling herself that she should feel guilty – or, at the very least, distressed by her aunt’s plight– she could not do so. If Aunt Myrtle had ever been truly fond of her, it might have been different, but that afternoon her aunt had made it clear as crystal that her niece was a useful tool and not a loved member of her family. So Dot fairly danced along the pavement, her feet tapping along to the tune she was singing in her head:
Ain’t she sweet, see her walking down the street, well I ask you very confidentially, ain’t she sweet?
Ain’t she sweet, see her walking down the street, well I ask you very confidentially, ain’t she sweet?
Presently, she found herself outside Rathbone’s butcher’s shop and stopped to look into the empty window. There was no meat on display, though a solitary bluebottle seemed oblivious of the fact and was buzzing hopefully round the large stainless steel trays. Dot knew that Mr Rathbone and Mr McNamara were both safely locked up in custody, where they would remain until their trial could commence. This would probably not be for several weeks, as Nick had told her that the police had to examine all the evidence very carefully before committing anyone to trial, although the chief inspector had told him that the outcome was not in doubt since a great deal of corroborative evidence had turned up. Tradesmen from Church Street, once they had been told that their oh so friendly scuffer on the beat had been involved in the robberies, had remembered something which had seemed neither relevant nor important at the time, but had tied McNamara in with the attacks on their own shops. He had wandered in and out during the day, chatting with the utmost geniality, his little eyes roving over everything: their stock, their precautions against theft, their tills and their young assistants. Some of the assistants had admitted that McNamara had befriended them, giving them the odd bob or two to visit a picture show, asking seemingly innocent questions about their time off, and that of their colleagues. Of course it had looked like friendly interest, the interest of a man whose job was to protect them against thieves. It was not until you twisted it round and looked at his questions from a more sinister point of view that you realised how clever – and how well placed – he had been to take up a life of crime.
Dot’s nose was pressed against the window, and she was wondering who would take the butcher’s shop on, when someone seized her arm. ‘What are you moonin’ about up here for? I went straight round to Church Street when I’d finished my deliveries and Emma’s done a roast chicken, roast potatoes and all the trimmings, and she said you’d made an apple pie yesterday, so we’re havin’ that with custard for a pud. Only she were a bit worried like because she were afraid you’d let your aunt bamboozle you into returning to Lavender Court.’ Corky, for it was he, peered anxiously into her face. ‘You aren’t going to do that, are you? You won’t let our Emma down? Nick says she’s only a kid really, for all we think her so grown up . . . but then he’s twenty-eight, really old, so I s’pose what’s grown up to you and me can seem like a kid to him.’
Dot, whose thoughts had been far away, managed to get the gist of this and replied readily. ‘Go back to Lavender Court to live? Not for a hundred quid. Not for roast chicken and apple pie every night of me life! Still, I’ve settled me aunt in and cleaned up the kitchen an’ her bedroom. It stank – me uncle had used the chamber pot for a week, I guess, an’ never emptied it once, the filthy old bugger. Aunt Myrtle thought she could blackmail me into living there again, but then she went a step too far – threatened me with an orphanage if I didn’t toe the line – so I told her to forget it. I tell you, Corky, I left the court and walked up Heyworth Street, an’ I felt . . . oh, light as air, free as a bird, as though I’d left all me troubles with the Brewsters and was startin’ me life anew.’
‘Aye, I know what you mean,’ Corky admitted. ‘It were the way I felt when I first escaped from Redwood Grange, and then I felt it even more the other day, when Nick said he’d take me on and the principal agreed.’ He grinned at Dot, and for the first time she noted the changes in him which only a few weeks of normal living had wrought. Oh, there were physical changes, of course. His hair had been allowed to grow a little longer, and curled, and his face had filled out. His shoulders were broader but she thought the main change was in his expression. His self-confidence showed in every movement. He gave his opinion freely, and though he still spoke with a strong London accent, he also spoke with authority.
‘Well? Are you coming? Because if not, I’m telling you, I’ll go by myself.’
Other books
Chill Out by Jana Richards
The Black Rose by Diana Sweeney
The Christmas Angel by Marcia Willett
Head Wounds by Chris Knopf
[Hurog 01] - Dragon Bones by Patricia Briggs
Thirst No. 5 by Christopher Pike
My Beautiful Enemy by Thomas, Sherry
The Professor's Pet (A BDSM Romance Novel) by Crescent, Tara
Rivets and Sprockets by Alexander Key